Dandelions Significance
why with age do we let the
dandelions significance
suddenly diminish
when do we begin to dismiss it
as nothing but a pesky weed
whose hands are bold enough
to deem which flowers are
worthy of a place in the garden?
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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The Weed
There was an old woman
that planted a garden.
And in the garden
there grew a weed.
The weed grew next to
a beautiful flower.
The flower had grown
from a tiny seed.
The weed was strong
and would not bend.
The wind did blow
and it did send
the seeds from the flower
into the air.
They circled around
and landed where
the weed was growing
next to the flower.
Soon the weed was
surrounded by flowers.
It loved where it was
and looked by the hours
at all of the beautiful
colorful flowers.
The old woman who planted
the garden one day
decided that she would
make a bouquet.
She went to the garden
to cut the flowers.
But when she got there
down came the showers.
The raindrops that fell
made the weed shine
which made the old woman
change her mind.
She left them alone
in her garden and knew
that the weed belonged
with the flowers that grew.
She'd planted the flowers.
God planted the weed.
The garden was perfect.
No bouquet did she need.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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When You Define A Thing
when you define
a thing, you limit it,
it is like fencing
your garden
the garden becomes
a set of exclusive
flowers, and anything
not like it becomes
a weed, and anything
that moves
becomes a pest
it is not that you
do not define, we do
it sometimes
only to understand
the limits of
understanding,
but we must be open
to other possibilities
of a garden,
a garden of stones
a garden of sand
of mud, of water
a fountain, a garden
of winds, of clouds
a garden of memories
like a poem
for instance, a garden
of words,
words with arms open
to the magic
of further creation
words still trying
to define themselves
in the garden
of the unknown
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Substance Fades
It is done quite simply!
To reduce an influence,
And significance...
Advocate the importance,
Of ignorance.
And market this as the latest fad.
With a witnessing of this,
As a rage no one can resist!
That's how influence,
And a significance that benefits...
Begins to slowly diminish in effectiveness.
With a substance that ends as an aging of it,
Fading away...
To become replaced by mediocrity.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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There Is A Secret Garden In My Heart
where i grow
some weeds
and flowers
with colors
and scents
not of your liking
i hide them
there
only for me
to see
and smell
and touch
you do not
know
i am more real
in this garden
my home
away from
you
where i can
be a weed
a grass
and not the
flower
that you always
love
in this garden
where
i am alone
where
i can be myself
away from
the clutches
of your choking
gaze
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Garden
My garden is a special place
Where morning blows its breeze
And sun dries the morning mists.
Where different plants and shrubs
Soothe the sight with flowers and buds.
My garden is a special place
Where busy bees fly and kiss
The beauty of flowers their nectar sipped
Where butterflies fly high and low
Attracting passers on the go.
My garden is a special place
Where I laid my worries and grief
Where I spend hours of peace
Where I hum with total bliss
Where I go and my stress ceased.
poem by Rose de Ramar
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Do Not Say Goodbye
i have not met you
and then you tell me that you are suffering.
you keep it a secret to your family and then
you cannot help it but tell them, the pain must be known
someone still does not know who you really are
and we keep that secret and i shall not reveal it
it is my respect to you and your pain
i have offered some prayers, and then perhaps i shall offer flowers
i have not seen you in pain
i have always imagined you smiling and taking time with the flowers in the
park
how many years? it was not that long
to really forget and simply dismiss what we shared as
nothing but
a brief encounter and
without any significance at all
i have not lost you because i will
not lose you
we decide what we forget
and remember.
do not say goodbye, there is no such thing
between friends.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tenacity Of Dandelions
Living in a rain forest has its challenges;
Here self perpetuation reigns supreme.
I’m convinced that if we do not fight for every inch of space in this forest of trees our house will be swallowed up in a few short years.
One of the best examples natures self perpetuation is the venerable dandelion, who seems to have a knack for survival second to none.
The war begins;
Although the young tender leaves of dandelions are edible, unless harvested early they quickly turn bitter…so eating all of them is not really an option.
So I attack my enemy with a smoke belching weed eating machine.
There’s a morbid satisfaction in lopping off dandelions at soil level.
Little do I know that the deep tap root remains and within a few days will push new growth above ground.
The ones missed getting whacked by now have gone to seed. I’ve never really taken the time to count the number of seeds that comprise that cute puff ball, but they must number in the hundreds One single plant gone to seed can replenish what others fail to accomplish.
My next assault is the lawnmower;
The whirling blades make short work of these tenacious weeds. Little do I know that some have already seeded the lawn with their spawn and in a short while the cycle begins all over again. The ones that get cut quickly learn to hug the ground just below the mower blades, ready to shoot up stalks that provide flowers that seemingly overnight turn into seed balls. They only need a mild wind to scatter them afar.
There is a local fellow that makes specialty garden tools. He sold me a long handled, pronged weed extractor. Works like a charm, reaching far enough into the soil, that the taproot can be removed. Although I make a valiant effort to remove all the dandelions I miss a few that are hiding beneath ferns or other larger plants. Seemingly overnight yellow flowers reappear.
The war presses on…I’m losing, so spraying with “Roundup” looks more inviting. After considering this option for about two seconds, the idea is abandoned.
Defeated I sue for peace, but the Dandelion King offers no quarter.
Weighing the lessons of my defeat I quickly realize that there are no “weeds”, rather a host of plants that live in harmony and balance with each other. I’m the one that foolishly believed that I could prevail over a primordial cycle of life that I cannot begin to understand, and that will be here long after I’m gone.
Now when I walk across the lawn and encounter a dandelion I tip my weathered cap and acknowledge that in war “To the victor belong the spoils”.
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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A Little Weed (Fun Poem 116)
There is a little weed in my garden,
which just refuses to leave.
He is a stubborn little perisher
who just will not go.
I have given him a spray
and pulled at his leaves,
but still he refuses to leave.
He stands there proud among the flowers
taunting me day after day.
I am determined to get rid of him
before my hair turns grey.
Days have folded into months
and still I cannot win.
He just stands and looks at me
with a silly grin.
I have even uprooted him
thinking that would do the trick.
Next day he was back
at least, I think it was him
or it could be his twin.
I woke up this morning
and my hair was all white
so went out and told him
I was giving up the fight
and now I have a garden
with not a flower in sight,
just a little weed and his brothers
to taunt me day and night.
poem by David Harris
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Now I Know Why It Must Rain Sometimes
there is no significance at first
when age is a little boy, the moon is the moon
nothing else, the wind is like anybody's wind
mother's breaths, like a pillow,
such a small world, of less significance
are the little things, unaccounted
laughters are laughters, sighs are sighs,
but today, the metaphors keep hovering
over my hair, like some flowers in my dreams
turning into butterflies, somehow,
the window becomes a framework of
my future, the door an opportunity
that i, as a pair of hands, must either close
or open,
this is it, every word is accounted and saved
and then something grows,
seeds are words now, and the flowers my deeds.
it rains sometimes, a cry for an unburdening.
sleep is again cruel to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Begin With
to begin with
he smiles and they begin to like him
because he is contagious
his smile travels from one place to another
like the way the butterfly hovers from one flower
another flower in the garden of
peace and quiet
to begin with
he keeps a hold on something that makes him happy
despite the odds
despite the fact that it is his own house that is burning
despite the fact that all the bridges going to his place have all been broken
to begin with
he is naked and he has nothing to cover himself anymore
to begin with
he is foremost his own being
and it is only this that all of them cannot take anymore
and so he keeps the promise
to maintain this emptiness so they may all become full
and guilty and sad.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Planted A Flower
I planted me a flower
Though my friends say a weed
In my garden from a forgotten seed.
So I planted it deep
And around it I hoed
So someday my flower would grow.
But my flower never came
From the sunshine or the rain
That GOD placed above its head.
And so my friends would just laugh
Every time that they would pass
My garden, my plant and I.
Gardeners were them all
As though they have been called
To bring beauty upon our sight.
And a gardener wasn't I
Just a poet in disguise
And for that reason I sat and cried.
More care to my plant I gave
And more affection to it I showed.
While praying one day my flower would grow.
And my friends would just laugh at me
When they saw me on my knees
And to my flower when they heard me speak.
To ignorance they did blame
Its a weed they would exclaim
Then they would walk away.
For a madman I must be
Trying to create a flower out of a weed
Then I would bow my head to weep.
And every night that I went to bed
I dreamt of a rainbow in my head
Which was my flower I planted with my own hands.
And every morning when I awoke
I ran to my garden, but I was torn
For my flower was still unborn.
And I could hear my friends laugh at me
Hidden behind an old oak tree
And I could see them shake their heads and walk away.
But then came one magic morning
When in my head my dreams were forming
While in my garden, my dream, had awoke.
I awoke, to gasps and jeers
I arose, to shouts and cheers
Then in my garden, I walked in bitterness and fear.
Then I saw a rainbow with a halo
I saw my friends with a child's glow
And then I heard the wind, as she softly spoke to me.
You had faith in a weed,
A weed, had faith in you.
And nature, had faith in you two.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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At Parting II
AND you could leave me now--
After the first remembered whispered vow
Which sings for ever and ever in my ears--
The vow which God among His Angels hears--
After the long-drawn years,
The slow hard tears,
Could break new ground, and wake
A new strange garden to blossom for your sake,
And leave me here alone,
In the old garden that was once our own?
How should I learn to bear
Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air,
Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn,
When only in a picture these appear--
These, once alive, and always over-dear?
Ah--think again: the rose you used to wear
Must still be more than other roses be
The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me!
For in my acres is no plot of ground
Whereon could any garden site be found,
I have but little skill
To water weed and till
And make the desert blossom like the rose;
Yet our old garden knows
If I have loved its ways and walks and kept
The garden watered, and the pleasance swept.
Yet--if you must--go now:
Go, with my blessing filling both your hands,
And, mid the desert sands
Which life drifts deep round every garden wall,
Make your new festival
Of bud and blossom--red rose and green leaf.
No blight born of my grief
Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer
Shall draw down blessings on you from the air,
And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree
Shall serve you when you walk no more with me
In garden ways; and when with her you tread
The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead
And when she asks, 'How did you come to know
The secrets of the ways these green things grow?'
Then you will answer--and I, please God, hear,
'I had another garden once, my dear'.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Emily's Garden
The Red Tulips are so captivating--
And the Dandelions just seem to roar---
Astonishing Mother Earth-who'd just given birth--
To the Daffodils only just moments before;
The Yellow colour is so delightful--
That it all but drowns out the Buttercups hue--
Blazing like no other in the Garden----
They are what give this Garden its majestic view;
Let us not forget the Crocus standing proud---
Nor the Violet or Lilac in the Garden Glen---
A Purple Haze can be sooo insightful---
Most especially with the Lavender 'round the bend;
Oh sooo many colours complete it--
This Garden of the World-upon Gods Green Earth--
That i simply must take time to express it---
To say: 'Thank you' for all the flowers most glorious birth! ;
'She slept beneath a tree--
Remembered by me
I touched her cradle mute-
She recognized the foot--
Put on her carmine suit
And see'
Emily Dickinson
1830-1886
This is a dedication to: The exibition in New York
'Emily Dickinson's Garden: The Poetry Of Flowers
At The New York Botantical Gardens in the Bronx Borough
Of New York. It is opening a garden inspired by 19th century poet Emily Dickinson. The exibition runs through June 13,2010.
poem by Theodora Onken
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Do Not Go To The Garden Of Flowers
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
O Friend! go not there;
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus,
and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.
The Poem That Failed
There is a place where significance ends -
that is the place where the metaphors tire
and the similes dimmily fail to inspire
and the poem runs out in a meaningless flood
but the poet won’t give up and declare it a dud
for the critics they spot and the readers they know,
you can get up and go, it’s the end of the show…for
there is the place where significance ends.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Seek not the gardener in the flesh
Two maidens walk throughout the forest unknown
Darkened shadows gloom and each fights off
The demons of her insecurities, they stumble across
What seems like naught less than a garden, for all of
The flowers grow in rows creating the impression of design.
One of the maidens claimed that no gardener would come this
Far into the unknown just to create a garden of such wonders.
The other could not comprehend that such a beauty could of
Come across within a conscious will for it’s existence pure.
They each argued in turn and learnt
From each nothing more than the cementation
Of opinion in ignorance towards the other
Yet they agree to test in empirical measures
What force treasures this Garden of wonder.
So they waited and they waited so patiently,
For they had set up fences, and awaiting defenceless they saw nothing.
They heard nothing but the wind as it carried
Upon its song the seeds of springfull joy,
Still the flowers continued to bloom
But no gardener appeared in the form
The un believer was willing to accept.
She that sees the garden knows true the beauty of her surroundings
She knows that it does not need to be measured
For it is a treasure as it is a pleasure in itself,
Yet still her companion points to the weeds that grow,
She point to the dying trees burnt as embers glow.
She can not listen as her friend explains that each is a cycle within the
Medicine wheel, each weed is as worthy of our praise as are the flowers
That catch and dance in Apollo’s radiance.
As the seasons turn we learn
As we grow every second
We are making anew the mould,
Before the kiln of silence awaits.
Seek not the gardener in the flesh
But know that it is he who breathes fresh breathe anew
Into every living being
The gardener unseen is as real as the emotions within which we swim.
poem by David Lacey
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Young Men of Sidon
The actor they'd brought in to entertain them
also recited a few choice epigrams.
The room opened out on the garden
and the delicate odour of flowers
mingled with the scent
of the five perfumed young Sidonians.
There were readings from Meleager, Krinagoras, Rhianos.
But when the actor recited
'Here lies Aeschylus, the Athenian, son of Euphorion'
(stressing maybe more than he should have
'his renowned valour' and 'sacred Marathonian grove'),
a vivacious young man, mad about literature,
suddenly jumped up and said:
'I don't like that quatrain at all.
Sentiments of that kind seem somehow weak.
Give, I say, all your strength to your work,
make it your total concern. And don't forget your work
even in times of stress or when you begin to decline.
This is what I expect, what I demand of you
and not that you completely dismiss from your mind
the magnificent art of your tragedies
your Agamemnon, your marvellous Prometheus,
your representations of Orestes and Cassandra,
your Seven Against Thebes -merely to set down for your
memorial
that as an ordinary soldier, one of the herd,
you too fought against Datis and Artaphernis.'
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.
quote by Dylan Thomas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Garden of Life
A garden of life is again a garden that I desire,
It grows from a point and a line that I concoct,
The real line is here, the garden is upon us.
What can May bring towards the end of the day?
It is summer evening, gardener of the week is absent
To feel fellowship with flowers and with plants and with trees.
Why do the seasons give in? What do you do in the night?
The day felt a picture too bold for the night, which was kind,
I like it when heat has ridden past the day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Flowers or garden
There are beautiful blossoms
In the garden
And the garden looks gorgeous
I often think
Whether it is flowers which make
A garden beautiful or
It is a garden that enhances the beauty of flowers
But it is certain that both are
Incomplete without each other.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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